The Peddler and the Artist
This is where it all cracked open for me. In just a few months, more than 1,100 poems tore their way out of me—raw, restless, and desperate to be heard. They weren’t polished. They weren’t gentle. They were survival. Each line carried the weight of illness, the haze of medication, the madness of nights that wouldn’t end.
This first collection isn’t just the start of a series—it’s the start of me clawing my way through chaos with nothing but words. These poems are fragments of episodes I barely survived, moments when my mind was both my cage and my weapon. They are unfiltered, messy, alive. They’re not just poems; they’re scars pressed into paper, shadows that still follow me, proof that even in the darkest corners, my spirit refused to stay silent.
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